


A Minor Divergence

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Martin's plans get messed up, and Malcolm pays the price, up to chapter 10, well as happy as I can depending on how the winter finale shakes out, written before 1X11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Things go a little differently during the lock down. Canon divergence from Q&A
Comments: 73
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this idea out of my head after Monday's episode. Jin's 3rd Person POV for this chapter

Jin startles when the man comes up to the window. It’s one thing to be in the same room as The Surgeon, who, chained to the wall and fixated on his own children as he was, wasn’t really dangerous. He wouldn’t be able to touch any of them. Physically, at least, because Jin has a sinking feeling that Ainsley won’t walk away from this interview unscathed, and her brother wasn’t looking so great, either. Now he isn’t so sure about any of their safety.

The man at the door is vastly more dangerous than the handcuffed prisoner in the cell behind him. Jin reminds himself that the doors are locked, that they’re safe, that help _should_ be on the way, but the fact remains that they are trapped for an indeterminate amount of time. His camera doesn’t stray from the man’s face as he shouts at the door. At least Ainsley will get plenty of material.

The man pulls out a key card.

A hand grips Jin’s shoulder and _yanks_. He stumbles back, barely registering Ainsley’s brother’s face as he struggles to steady himself without dropping his camera.

Someone grunts. Someone else screams. The lens captures Malcolm and the guard closing the door, leaving red handprints behind. 

“_Malcolm_,” Ainsley shrieks as her brother’s back thumps against the door and his legs start to give out. 

Malcolm’s shirt is violent red. His eyes move between all of them rapidly. He wheezes every time he breathes. 

“What happened?” her father blurts out from somewhere behind them, the only one still in the cell.

“Give me the camera,” Ainsley demands. Her eyes are wide and glistening, and Jin wordlessly complies. “You’re stronger than me. _Please_.”

The guard grips Malcolm by the shoulders. Jin shakily grabs his legs. They bring him back to the cell, back to The Surgeon, back to his father, whose eyes are manic and wide and sharp as he begins to understand what has happened. 

“Put him down,” Martin Whitly snarls. If Ainsley hadn’t already gotten him to crack, it would have been a terrifying change. “David, get the first aid kit.”

It’s telling that the guard immediately does as his prisoner asks. You wouldn’t have to be a doctor to know that Malcolm was in bad shape. Jin feels numb watching his girlfriend sob, her brother’s limp hand tight in one white-knuckled grip. The other hand clutches at his bleeding chest. 

“Now, uncuff me,” Martin barks out with hands outstretched.

“I can’t,” David says. "I shouldn't."

Ainsley’s head whips up. Her eyes bounce between her father and the guard.

“My son is _dying_.” Martin shakes his bound hands violently. “How many years of surgical experience do any of _you_ have?”

“Just do it,” Ainsley shouts. The blood has welled up around her fingers. The palms of her hands look coated. “He’s right. Let him help. Please.”

Jin feels sick. 

Fumbling with the keys, David removes the handcuffs and shoves the kit into Martin’s free hands. He and Ainsley carefully move Malcolm over the line and within his father’s reach. From there, all they can do is watch The Surgeon methodically save his son with the meager contents of the kit available to him. It’s almost hypnotic. Clearly the years locked in a cell have not dulled his skills or knowledge. Jin is also struck by how odd the situation is. They came to record the man behind the mask, the cruelty that let him murder so many people and keep the cops chasing after dead ends, but now Jin is recording the man saving a life rather than taking it. He gets it all on tape — the hands that gently move Ainsley’s bloody ones out of the way, the lack of hesitation in his every move, and even the way Martin leans back and cradles his son’s head with bloody hands once he’s done. Neither Ainsley nor David force him to let go until help actually arrives.

Jessica Whitly and an older man meet them at the hospital. Ainsley rushes forward to hug her mother, only allowing a nurse to pull her away after Jessica nearly breaks at the sight of blood all over her. Malcolm’s blood. The man’s face pales at how much has made it onto Ainsley. When the nurse manages to coax his girlfriend down the hall to get cleaned up, both of them look to Jin.

The man, who Jin will find out is named Gil, lets Jessica lean on him. “What happened?”

“He saved me,” Jin breathes out. He falls into a waiting room chair, all of the night’s events finally catching up to me. “That guy would have… he would have stabbed me. Malcolm pulled me out of the way, and that guy just stabbed him. And then he was wheezing.” He shakes his head as if to shake off the image of Malcolm dying in front of them. “The Surgeon saved him.”

Jessica makes a sound of pain, but Jin can’t stop now that he’s started. He feels numb. Like he's removed from the situation.

“It was amazing. I think he would have bled out if we didn’t let him.” 

“He’s right,” Ainsley adds as she settles next to her boyfriend, clad in clean scrubs now instead of her bloody clothes. “Dad _saved_ him.”

“That’s funny, because your father’s the reason Malcolm is in surgery right now.” Jessica angrily wipes her tears away.

“Mom—” 

“She’s right,” Gil says. “The man who stabbed your brother — Tevin — confessed. Martin set it up. He wasn’t supposed to stab Malcolm, but he got in the way.”

He leaves it unsaid that Jin was supposed to be the victim. It’s really the only thing that makes sense, and they all seem to know it. Martin would not have purposefully let either of his kids almost die, but having David stabbed wouldn’t be as effective in getting Ainsley on his side. 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Jessica bites out. She wipes her eyes free of tears. “You cannot air that interview. Not without the truth. You can’t do that to your brother.” 

“I know,” Ainsley whispers, getting up to hug her mother desperately. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he wasn’t supposed to be there...”

A hand lands on Jin’s shoulder for the second time that night and he looks up to see it is Gil’s. 

“Let’s give them time, okay?”

Jin nods.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Malcolm with a dash of Gil and Jessica

“Malcolm!” 

He glances at Ainsley and the pale fear on her face, then at Jin, who looks horrified even as he continues to film, and finally at David. David is the only one not looking at his face when Malcolm looks to him, and even though he can’t bring himself to look down, he can feel what the guard is looking at. His shirt is becoming increasingly wetter. An odd but familiar pressure rises in the back of his throat — anxiety.

Malcolm didn’t really plan beyond grabbing the cameraman. He didn’t have time to. Tevin shouldn’t have been able to get his hands on a key card, and they had no reason to suspect he could get through a sealed door. As soon as he saw the key card, Malcolm moved, knowing instinctively that he had more of a chance of defending himself than Jin, and before he could figure out what exactly to do, he felt it.

A knife. He could feel it pierce right through his shirt, his skin. He could tell it wasn’t just a superficial stab, either. He could even guess how long the blade was. Adrenaline spiking, Malcolm put all of his strength into forcing his attacker back through the door. Something was very, very wrong. 

Malcolm belatedly processes all of this as he hits the ground. He wants to tell Ainsley that he’s okay (_lie_), but as he begins to gasp for air, the words die before they can even reach the back of his throat.

“What happened?”

Oh right, they were visiting his dad. He groans briefly as he’s lifted, both in agony (something is not right) and exasperation. The part of him that is hysterically blasé about bleeding out wonders if Martin will be thrilled to get blood on his hands again or angry that he might lose his ‘project’ or whatever thinks of Malcolm as in his head. Or maybe neither, he thinks, hearing them argue. He tries to squeeze Ainsley’s hand back. His hand stays stubbornly slack.

_They’ll be arguing over my corpse at this rate_. 

Willing his sister to look back at him before he inevitably passes out, he absentmindedly thinks of his mom and Gil, and hell, even Dani, JT, and Edrisa. Of course he’s going to die just as he was _finally_ getting along with colleagues. A particularly painful wheeze reminds him that at the very least, it shouldn’t be too much longer. There is something seriously wrong with his lungs.

And then he’s being dragged over the line, back into his dad’s hands and under his eyes. Martin doesn’t say a word, surprisingly. He just picks up a scalpel (who gave his serial killer father a _scalpel?_) and begins cutting into Malcolm’s chest. It doesn’t hurt. Perhaps that should be concerning, but he’s lost far too much blood already to be too bothered. 

So Malcolm watches. Watches his dad fix him without hesitation, an odd flicker of deep unease in the usually unflappable man’s face. There’s tension in his jaw, too. It’s less indicative of anger and more of worry. Deep down, he isn’t surprised at the signs that his dad actually cares. 

Martin catches his eyes and says… something. Malcolm isn’t particularly paying attention to sound anymore, but he does catch the relief on his dad’s face as he hands the scalpel over to someone. He feels the warm, tacky hands gently cradle his head. As he begins to slip into unconsciousness, he remembers one of the last times Martin was this close to him. 

He remembers a knife.

Jessica tries to impress on her son’s doctors just how important it is that Malcolm is not too sedated. For all that she wishes he would take something to help him sleep more regularly, she’s all too aware that if they sedate him the way they would anyone else with his injuries, it won’t end prettily. Even with Gil backing her up, however, they refuse to budge. Malcolm’s lung is in quite bad shape and he already went through surgery without sedation. They’re quite insistent he be given something. It would be inhumane to do otherwise. Gil does manage to convince them to allow someone to stay in the room with Malcolm all night to make sure he doesn’t freak out. 

He doesn’t manage to convince Jessica to go home, though.

“Are you going to arrest me, Gil?” she shoots at him, eyes narrowed. “Because trust me, _nothing_ short of that will keep me away right now.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I will not be able to sleep while my son lies here half dead.” With one last look, she strides past him and into Malcolm’s hospital room. She sits and pointedly ignores him.

Gil sighs. He can’t blame her exactly, seeing as he’d be in her place had she agreed to go home and rest. It was miraculous enough that he’d gotten Jin to take Ainsley home without much push back. He follows her and settles into another visitor chair. 

He can feel his dad’s arms around him, his larger hands guiding smaller ones gripping a knife. His legs burn as he runs and runs and runs — until Martin appears in front of him and reaches out to rest bloody hands on his face.

“My dear boy.”

Malcolm screams. He thrashes weakly (_chloroform?_). He pushes all of the weight off of him and hisses when he feels something give. 

“Malcolm!”

_Mom_?

“Malcolm, stop!”

He can hear her crying. He realizes he’s crying, too. Someone restrains him.

“Malcolm, you’re at the hospital—”

_Gil_?

“I told you he wouldn’t react well to sedatives—”

“Ma’am, we sedated him for the pain—”

“Because _that_ worked so well—”

“— and we’ll need to sedate him again now that he’s ripped his stitches—”

“Mom,” Malcolm croaks. He can’t see her around the nurses and doctors.

One of them gives him a firm look. “You need to rest, Mr. Bright. You ripped your stitches and pulled out your IV.”

“I’m here, dear,” Jessica calls out.

“Me, too,” Gil chimes in. 

Everyone else finishes up and leaves the three of them in the room alone.

Malcolm takes a sip of water with a little help. “Ains?” 

“She’s okay,” Gil answers. “Shaken, but okay. I sent her home. Her boyfriend promised he wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“How long are they keeping me?”

“A while,” Jessica says quietly, walking around the bed to hold his hand.

He closes his eyes as the sedatives take hold. This isn’t going to be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely was not expecting to update as soon, but the new episode gave me some ideas! I want to write another chapter focused on things that happened in the newest ep though that might not be out until some time next week since the next episode isn't out until the 25th.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: next week I'll post a chapter focused on 1x08!  
also me: but what if I write 700 words of Ainsley right now
> 
> So yeah, mostly Ainsley with a bit of set up for 1x08 events.

Violence is nothing new to Ainsley — in a way. She may not remember much of her father pre-arrest, and she certainly never suffered the nightmares and anxiety the way her brother and mother did, but she was touched by it all the same. As soon as she was old enough to sneak out from under her protective mother’s watch, she began her research. 

First she tried looking at home. 

Her mother destroyed every picture of him she could long before Ainsley was old enough to think to save one. Malcolm had some, she knew, in a box hidden in his room. Sometimes she used to sift through his collection in the hopes that it would spark _some_ memory of her own. Something she could have for herself. Unfortunately, most of what Malcolm had was just of him and their father. There were only two full family pictures in the pile. One was from the day she was born, their mother with an impeccably made up face and tired smile down at the newborn in her arms while Malcolm sat perched on their father’s lap at her bedside. The other was dated a handful of months before the arrest. Their parents stood tall together, their father’s arm around their mother’s waist. In front of them was Malcolm, smiling wider than he ever has in her memory, a rather impatient-looking younger version of herself settled piggyback against him. She copied both in secret once, though neither really gave her what she wanted. _Wants_.

Then, she started on The Surgeon. 

There were plenty of articles and pictures and analyses and even videos on the subject if one knew where to look. Ainsley taught herself how. If she showed an interest in her father’s… activities to anyone at school, she knew it would get back to her mother. Not even Malcolm would help her. He always did his best to keep her away from Martin Whitly, and she knew for a fact that he made a point to never talk about her during his visits with the man. So she spent hours and hours pouring over the information on her own in an effort to get to know her father, to understand _why_. Of course it wasn’t easy. The man never allowed himself to be known, and all of the ‘expert’ opinions were just guesses at the end of the day.

Still, her research sparked something. She branched out to other killers and then crime in general, and eventually it landed her where she is today — fervently scrubbing her hands free of blood that she logically knows isn’t there. 

It’s _not_. She cleaned up at the hospital after they gave her the all clear. 

But she feels it. The tacky blood under her nails. The way it wells up between her fingers and soaks into the cuffs of her sleeves. 

She can see it when she closes her eyes, too, and even though she knows that Malcolm is out of danger, all she can see behind her eyelids is her brother bleeding out right in front of her. It was the closest she's come to actual violence.

“Ains?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, shutting off the faucet even though it’s the last thing she wants to do. 

Jin opens the door and looks at her raw red hands. “No, you’re not.”

She turns away from him and dries her hands without a word. 

“C’mon, I ordered us food,” he says as if nothing’s wrong.

“How can you eat right now?” All she feels is sick. She’s doubtful anything would stay down. 

“Ains,” he says cautiously, “Your brother’s going to be fine. I’m sure he’d rather you eat—”

“How would _you_ know what he’d want?”

“You’re the one who hasn’t introduced us! Do you think I wanted our first meeting to be him taking a knife for me?”

Ainsley grits her teeth and rubs away the tears that well up as her indignation fades away. She wishes she was alone, but also… she doesn’t want to be. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Will you eat something for me?”

She nods to quell another argument.

Later, when he finally falls asleep, she pulls out the second photograph and tries to forget what Malcolm looked like bleeding out.

An object in motion stays in motion. Malcolm already found the car, and even though it’s the farthest thing from Gil’s mind as he sits at the hospital with Jessica, the investigation’s already moving. The bodies are piling up. Edrisa and her team work on identifying them with JT and Dani’s help. They build the case piece by piece, knowing that Malcolm will be antsy for anything to distract him and ignoring that they’re doing the same. 

Meanwhile, somewhere else, a man paces. His fists are clenched, his jaw is tight, and his mind races. He cannot complete his mission. The cops have the junkyard covered, even though he’s sure they haven’t found his latest project. Truthfully, he wasn’t surprised when the cops first showed up, if only because they were brought in by Malcolm Whitly, and oh, he remembers the boy. As soon as he saw him by _that_ car, he knew it was the boy he’d met so long ago, and his back up plans immediately went into effect. 

Or at least they would have, if Martin’s boy wasn’t in the hospital now.

He checks periodically to see if he’s been released. He follows Martin’s wife, too, because even if he has to start without Malcolm, he can still lure the boy in as long as she’s home to pick up the phone. The problem is that she doesn’t go home for any long period of time. She goes to shower and change. Sometimes she picks up food from her kitchen, but often she has her driver deliver meals for both her and the boy, insisting that he not eat the food provided by the hospital. 

He _cannot_ complete his mission if she doesn’t cooperate. Part of him thinks to call her cellphone, but it wouldn’t have the effect he needs it to have, and he struggles to weigh the importance of calling Martin’s old number with the importance of his mission. 

Something will have to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, Ainsley's decisions in 1x08 are kind of messing with how I already wrote her, so hopefully she doesn't come off too too ooc 
> 
> Also, the bit about Jessica having a full face of makeup right after giving birth to Ainsley is something my mom did when I was born. I couldn't resist having Jessica do the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Malcolm being conflicted and a little bit of plot

Malcolm wakes up to gentle but firm hands on his shoulders, keeping him from lurching up to a sitting position. Still, his wrists strain against the hospital bed restraints. His doctor had no problem agreeing to them after the first (and so far last) time he ripped his stitches after a night terror. They’ve gotten better at anticipating his sedative tolerance as well, thankfully.

“You okay, kid?” Gil leaves a hand on his shoulder as he becomes more aware. “Your breakfast is here.” He holds up a lunch box and gives it a slight shake.

“Mom’s not here?” 

Jessica brought him food for every meal without fail for the past two days. The more observant part of him knew it was her way of gaining back some control of the situation while she felt helpless, and he didn’t begrudge her that, even if he wanted to tell her to go get some rest. (Not that he was one to talk.) 

Gil sets the lunch box on the little tray that swings over the bed and went to work freeing Malcolm’s hands from the restraints. 

Unlike his own back in his apartment, _these_ aren’t meant to be so easily taken off by the wearer. He massages his wrists to get rid of the phantom weight of the straps and winces at the tenderness there. 

“I didn’t give her a choice,” his pseudo-father says wryly. “She’s not to come back until she’s had a decent night’s rest in her own bed. I think she plans on visiting Ainsley today in the meantime.” He unzips the lunch box and pulls out a container and a spoon. “But she only agreed to stay away if I can get you to eat this.”

Holding back a potentially painful laugh, Malcolm pulls the lid off with a pale hand. “Is this Jessica Whitly’s famous overnight oats?” 

They’re his mother’s in name only, really, since the only thing she did to change her personal chef’s recipe was add a dash or two or three of whiskey, depending on how she was feeling that day. Though, as he smells it, he can’t detect the usual tang of it. At least she knew better than to mix booze with his medications.

“Picked it up this morning,” Gil confirms. “It should be bland enough to settle well in your stomach. I’m supposed to bring the container back as proof before lunch and pick up some soup in return.”

Shaking his head, Malcolm picks up the spoon and begins to eat slowly. It’s a privilege to not have to eat the hospital food, he knows, and although it’s absurd that she’s turning Gil into her courier, he can’t bring himself to say anything against it. It’s almost… nice to have people stubbornly taking care of him. (Until he can convince the doctor to discharge him at least.)

Plus, Gil looks happy that he’s eating for once. “I’ll be back in a few hours then.” 

He swallows another spoonful. “Is it the junkyard case?”

Gil levels a stern look at him. “If you break out of here, Bright, I will ban you from working on this case. It’s bad enough I’m letting you consult on it in the first place.”

“So if I stay here,” Malcolm muses, “you _will_ let me help?” 

Perhaps it’s bad form to push the older man when he knows Gil is feeling overly protective and indulgent at the moment, but to be fair, the cop practically raised him. He _has_ to know what Malcolm is doing.

The look on Gil’s face confirms it. “_If_,” he stresses, “and _only_ if you eat everything Jessica sends for your lunch, I will consider letting you look at the files. You’re not leaving that bed for anything case related until they discharge you, you hear me?”

Really, it’s not too much to ask. When his mom is there to bring him food in person, she makes sure he eats everything anyway, so it’s not a big change. The real problem with their deal is Malcolm having to stay in the hospital.

He takes a deep breath and considers it. His tremors have only gotten worse from staying in the hospital, both because he feels trapped and also can’t help but be _constantly_ reminded of his father. He’s been in plenty of hospitals to visit Martin at work before. Everything from the scrubs to the sanitized smell sparks memories. His wrists are bruised from the nightmares.

However, he understands all too clearly why everyone insists he stays. If another nightmare were to throw him out the window again… his body is already run ragged from surgery on a cell floor. His chest still aches from it.

The best thing he can do is stay and cooperate so that he can leave _sooner_.

(And maybe… maybe his dad will be out of solitary confinement by then. There were rumors that he wouldn’t be there for long. Apparently he showed great remorse for it all, if only because it led to his son nearly dying in his arms. Malcolm tries to suppress the part of him that is looking forward to visiting him for the first time post-injury — the part of him that can’t stop thinking about those bloody hands cradling his head, the _relief_ he saw in those eyes once he could breathe again.

He wants to see Martin with that perspective. 

He wants to ask him if manipulating Tevin was worth it.)

“I can agree to that,” he says finally.

“You _will_ agree to it,” Gil presses, “or no deal.”

Malcolm smiles. “I agree to your conditions, then.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, kid.”

And then Malcolm is alone with his thoughts for the first time in days. Unfortunately, most of those pertain to one Martin Whitly.

“Miss?”

She can’t move.

“Miss Whitly?”

This _cannot_ be happening. She closed that room up. For all intents and purposes, it doesn’t even _exist_ anymore.

“Miss Whitly!”

“_Yes_,” she snaps, terrified. “That is my name.”

“Should I call Officer Arroyo?”

Jessica nods jerkily. Yes. If anyone is equipped to find out why a phone is ringing in her husband’s old office, it’s probably Gil. 

The phone rings, muffled by the wall, over and over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I will get to the main events of 1x08 at some point


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to those 1x08 events!

When Gil finally arrives, Jessica is already nursing her second drink. The phone is still ringing.

“Hey,” he says softly, perching on the edge of the seat next to her. “Are you doing okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She laughs, and her voice cracks on it. “I’ll be better once you deal with that _godawful_ ringing.”

He nods and leaves her, knowing she’d much rather have her breakdown in private. Downstairs, he finds the team he brought with him breaking down the wall to reveal the dust covered office he remembers so vividly still. He’d certainly spent enough time there during the investigation. 

They give him the all clear. He picks up the phone.

“I was beginning to think no one would answer,” the voice on the other end says.

“And who am I talking to?” 

The voice laughs. “You might know me as Paul, Lieutenant Arroyo.”

“I don’t think I introduced myself, Paul,” Gil replies evenly. His mind races. They knew there must be some odd connection between Paul Lazar and Martin Whitly, but no one expected the man would give them any information himself.

“I didn’t need you to. How could I forget the cop who finally managed to put Martin away? With some help from a _child_, of course.”

“He was a smart kid.”

“And now he’s a profiler. Such a shame. He showed such potential on that camping trip.”

Gil takes a slow, deep breath. “Why did you call this number, Paul?”

“I’m calling as a courtesy. You need to stop interrupting my work. I _won’t_ stand for more interruptions. Pass that along to Malcolm for me.”

The phone call cuts out.

“Work on rerouting this _now_,” Gil barks out, heading back up the steps.

Jessica glances at him with shiny eyes. “That bad?”

“That phone won’t be ringing again,” he assures her. “I have to talk to Malcolm, but the other officers will be around for a while longer, and I’ll be back at some point.”

“There’s lunch for him in the fridge. Be a dear and take it to him, will you?” Knocking her drink back, she pours another.

It doesn’t take a profiler to realize that Gil is bothered. Carefully shifting into a better sitting position, Malcolm watches him stride into the room. His entire body is tense. Even his knuckles are white against the strap of the thermos he carries. If there’s been a break in the case, it isn’t a good one. 

“You’ll be getting some cops on the door, Bright, and I won’t take no for an answer.” Gil hands the thermos over with a spoon. “I think it’s some sort of soup.”

Malcolm unscrews the top cooperatively. This is clearly not the time to push. “What happened?”

“Paul Lazar called the phone in your father’s old office. I want to go over what he said with you, and hopefully you can get something out of it. I’d like to catch this bastard before he has a chance to go after one of you.” The fact that Malcolm wasn’t in the shape to defend himself is unspoken but heard all the same. 

“Do you have officers watching Mom and Ainsley?”

Gil nods. “You know I do.”

“Good. Then hit me with it. What did Paul say?”

Although Gil’s memory isn’t as good as Malcolm’s, it’s certainly not something to scoff at. Every little phrasing Paul used was noted, and by the way the younger man’s eyes light up, he knows the Junkyard killer messed up.

“What are you thinking?”

“You need to go back to the Junkyard, Gil,” Malcolm tells him. His hands twist in the hospital bedding and he frowns. “I can’t come with you. They won’t let me sign out yet.”

“I’ll get you there somehow,” Gil promises.

In the end, he video calls Malcolm from the scene.

“Tell me where to go, kid.”

He does. He leads Gil back towards where Paul was when he shot at him days ago, back towards whatever Paul is hiding. It won’t be easy to find. They would have found it already if that was the case, but they also didn’t know they were looking for something else last time. 

“_There!_ What’s that?” 

Gil shifts it carefully and curses. “It looks like it might be a vent.”

“And where there’s a vent…”

Beneath an inch or two of gravel is a hatch.

“Ok Bright, I’ll keep you updated, but I need to call the bomb squad in on this.”

“But Gil, whoever is in there is likely dying right now!”

“We’re doing this by the books,” he insists before hanging up before the argument can go on any longer. 

In some ways he’s happy Malcolm can’t be on the scene this time.

It takes all of his patience not to carefully get out of bed and discharge himself regardless of what his doctors wanted, but Gil would definitely kick him off the case if he did, so he stays put for two hours of agonizing silence. His phone hasn’t chimed or rung once. No one’s been by to visit, either.

Just as two and a half hours have passed, the very cop he’s been waiting for walks into his room with a very grim face and locks the door behind him. 

“We found a man in the RV,” Gil says with a sigh. “He’s alive, but barely. They put him a few rooms down the hall.”

“So we did interrupt him.”

“It looks that way, yeah, but we got into his hiding spot in time. We’ve got officers on his door, too.” He looks tired, rightfully so. With both Malcolm and their new charge, the hospital is becoming a bigger target by the minute. “I’ll let you know if anything changes. I have to get back to the precinct.”

Malcolm nods. “I’ve got my phone.”

His next visitor complicates things even more. 

“Malcolm,” Ainsley starts quietly, “why do you have cops at your door?”

He curses. “Ains, you shouldn’t be here.” 

With her at the hospital, too, there are _three_ of Paul’s potential targets in one location.

Her eyes narrow. “Why not? What’s happened now? I saw cops down the hall, too.”

“If you must know, an old friend of our father’s is active right now,” he says reluctantly, well aware that he’s talking to a reporter. It would have been easier if she never found out. “Gil has officers following all of us to be careful.”

“Is it the killer you were asking dad about?” 

“Yes.”

“This might work,” she mutters. Her brow furrows. “If I could cut the interview right —”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Sorry,” one of the cops interjects. “I have a package for Malcolm. The courier couldn’t give us any information other than what’s on the label, and I know Lieutenant Arroyo wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t look into this.”

“Put it down on the table,” Malcolm tells him. “Ains, can you give us a minute?”

She ignores him, eyes widening. “Is that package _bleeding?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try getting through the rest of the episode's stuff before tomorrow's episode airs! I can't promise anything since I'm a bit busy tomorrow, but I really want to get it done before I have new stuff to work with, ya know?
> 
> Also, I'm tentatively saying this fic will end with the winter finale. I don't know how many chapters that will end up being though


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Junkyard Killer makes contact again, and Gil is frustrated with the Whitly(/Bright) siblings.

Gil’s just waiting on Edrisa and her team when the call comes in. He _needs_ to go to the hospital, to see the package and see about setting up more security for both Malcolm and the man they found in the RV, but the call is coming in on the line they connected from the Whitly house. 

He pulls an officer aside. “Send Edrisa down to the hospital as soon as she’s ready. I’ll follow when I can.”

Thankfully, Dani and JT are ready for the call. JT nods at him.

“Who am I speaking to?” a voice says neutrally. It’s the same voice from the first phone call.

“Lieutenant Arroyo. It’s nice to speak to you again, Paul.” His gaze drifts to his team, working hard to trace the call. He’s been on the computer side of traces before. He knows he has to pull this conversation out as long as he can, especially since Paul Lazar has been evading detection for decades.

“Ah, Lieutenant. Am I keeping you from the hospital?” He chuckles. “My gift should have arrived by now.”

Gil takes a slow, deep breath. He cannot let the man bait him. “I didn’t think gifts were your M.O.”

“I made an exception this time. You see, I remember telling you to keep Martin’s boy from interfering with my work,” Paul says tightly. “Apparently, I needed to send the message more directly.”

“He’s just doing his job. You can’t blame him for that.” The thought that Lazar might go a step further to get his ‘message’ to Malcolm is a heavy one, and Gil reminds himself that he’s done this before. He’s talked to killers. He knows he’s in control here, that Lazar is just trying to get back on top. Gil can’t let that happen, and that means he can’t lose his composure.

“Is that how you found my trash? Malcolm was 'doing his job'?”

“I’ve been on this job for much longer than him. Who’s to say I didn’t figure you out myself?” His knuckles are white against the phone.

“_LIAR_,” Paul howls into the phone, making Gil flinch. “You couldn’t see through Martin without the boy, and you can’t see through _me_.”

Another deep breath. “If you know the answers, then why are you asking questions?”

“You tell him to _stop_. If you don’t, I might have to do it myself, Lieutenant, and you don’t want that. Bad things happen when he snoops,” Paul bites out, but then laughs, tone loosening. “Like the girl.”

“What girl?”

“The one in Martin’s trunk. I'm sure he's told you about her before.” 

Gil’s face falls, his free hand tightens into a fist. He knows about the girl. Many of Malcolm’s early nightmares were about her, and Gil genuinely tried to find evidence that she existed, but there never was any. If she was _real_…

“Pass along my warning, Lieutenant,” Paul says once more before hanging up.

JT shakes his head after it cuts out. They couldn’t trace him.

Gil curses, not bothering to hold it in around his team. He’s not sure how he’s going to tell Malcolm about this, but if he’s sure of anything, it’s that Malcolm needs to know. If Paul manages to tell him first, Gil could lose his trust on this. 

Edrisa arriving is a nice distraction from Ainsley’s intense stare. His sister knows he can’t give her information. She probably even knows that it could throw the Junkyard killer into a rage if more scrutiny fell onto him, but at the end of the day, her reporter instincts are too strong. When she gets like this, she’s unlikely to back down. All he can do is keep as much back as possible. 

“Where’s Gil?” Ainsley says suddenly, startling Edrisa as she cuts the box open.

“Oh, the Lieutenant said he would come as soon as he can.” Her eyes dart over to Malcolm, and he understands. 

Something happened. 

“He’s a busy man,” he tries.

Ainsley gives him a look, and he knows that she understands, too.

Inside the package is a hand. Although there are a few distinguishing features, it’s nothing that Malcolm remembers seeing recently. Edrisa waves it off as she sets it into the cooler.

“You should rest.” She smiles at him. “It’s my job, you know. Identifying bodies. I’ll have it done in a jiffy.”

(He ignores the amused look on Ainsley’s face as she looks between the both of them.)

“Thank you, Edrisa.”

Gil arrives a few minutes later. He looks harried, and Malcolm instantly knows that whatever happened wasn’t a good thing.

“You should leave, Ainsley,” Malcolm murmurs.

“_No!_ If this killer is the one you asked our father about — the one who _called mom_ — then I have a right to know what Gil is going to say.” 

Gil sighs. “You know what the package was, don’t you, Bright?”

“A warning,” Malcolm says with a nod. “We’ve pissed him off.”

“_You’ve_ pissed him off. He called again and made that very clear, which is why you aren’t going to complain about tighter security.” He rubs his temple. “And Ainsley, you should go home or go with Jessica. It’ll be easier to keep an eye on you if he decides your brother’s too obvious of a target.”

“If he decides not to go after Malcolm, then I’ll be safer here,” she insists. 

“If you stay here, you _have_ to stay in this room.” Malcolm gives her a hard look. “You can’t wander off to question the officers down the hall or look around. It isn’t safe.”

“Fine,” she gives in, way too easily.

Gil shakes his head. “You two don’t make things easy on me.” He hesitates, glancing at Ainsley. “Bright, when all of this is over, I need to talk to you. _Alone_.”

When he gets back to his car, there’s a note tucked into the windshield wipers. He pulls a pair of gloves out of the trunk and carefully opens it.

_If you feel like talking_, it reads. There’s a number scrawled below. 

He pulls out his cell phone. “Be ready to run a trace when I get back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so I'm pulling 1x08 out a bit more, because I'm still not sure what I'll be able to do with 1x09 with Malcolm still in the hospital! I might be able to wrap up 1x08 in the next chapter, and I'll let you know if I'm going to gloss over 1x09 or not then.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm talks with Ainsley and then Paul

“This,” Ainsley says, gesturing to the table where the package sat a few hours prior, “is all connected to our father, isn’t it?”

Malcolm reluctantly nods. “You can’t report on this, Ains. If more people compromise his mission —”

“Oh I won’t. Yet.” She tucks some hair behind her ear. “I don’t have enough information. I’ll wait until I can put together a more cohesive report on this killer _and_ The Surgeon. I wonder if our father would be more willing to talk about him once he knows the guy threatened you.”

“You _can’t_ tell him,” Malcolm says tightly. Nevermind the fact that she wants to bring him into her feature again, but without his memories of the trip from the photo, he can’t quite say how his father will react to the threat.

“I don’t know if you remember his eyes, Mal, but he looked terrified and _enraged_ when you were stabbed. Imagine how he’ll feel when he finds out no one told him his old buddy was after his son?” She looked genuinely unsettled.

“He doesn’t have to know.” It’s weak and they both know it.

“I can try and keep you out of my report, but this is a career defining moment,” she pleads with him quietly. “This is a _me_ defining moment.”

He screws his eyes closed and tries to unclench his fists. 

“_Please_.”

“I won’t stop you,” he forces out. “But that doesn’t mean Gil won’t. Or mother. Have you considered how she’ll feel about you dragging this up in the media again?”

She scoffs. “This is old hat for her, and you know it. It’s not like I’ll be bringing her up directly, either.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t.” He thinks of the tape he watched, of how vulnerable she was behind her masks. “It’s not fair to her.”

When Ainsley looks like she’s about to argue, he reaches over and takes her hand.

“Just talk to her first, okay?”

“I will,” she concedes, “but I make no promises about the report itself.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he says fondly but sadly.

And that’s that. She swiftly changes the subject, and he lets her, preferring to hear about this and that over the report that looms over their heads, filled with shots of their father saving him from a bloody death on the cell floor. The conversation is pleasant enough even with the weight of it all in the background.

Eventually she offers to call for takeout. “Something light,” she promises, used to his dietary issues. 

Of course, Malcolm’s luck has to run out sometime. 

Not long after Ainsley leaves to pick up their dinner, a doctor enters his room and locks the door. He doesn’t recognize the man despite having been at the hospital for days now, though the surgical mask doesn’t help.

His throat feels tight. “Paul, I assume,” Malcolm says flatly. 

“Martin did always say you were a smart kid,” the doctor, _Paul Lazar_, tells him. “But are you smart enough to answer my questions?”

“How about you answer mine first? There were cops stationed here for my protection.” Malcolm meets his eyes, ignoring the tremors starting in his hands. “What did you do to them?”

“They were in my way, Malcolm. What do you _think_ I did with them? And before you ask, I took care of that trash down the hall, too.”

“Why are you here?” He’s very, very aware that, without any of the cops in the hospital for him or the Junkyard Killer’s latest victim left alive, the chances of Ainsley stumbling into this confrontation unprepared has skyrocketed. 

“It’s rude not to take turns.” Paul tugs down his mask, and Malcolm knows he’s not getting out of this so easily now that he knows his face. “But since your question leads me to mine, I’ll let it pass. This time. Now, tell me how you found him.”

“That’s not much of a question,” Malcolm quips.

The smile he gets in return is unsettling. Paul moves forward menacingly.

“I’m a profiler,” Malcolm continues. “It’s my job.”

“That’s what your boss told me, but see, I don’t buy it. No one else has interrupted me before.”

“I’m _very_ good at my job.”

Paul takes the final steps until he’s right next to the bed. The part of Malcolm’s brain that is always analyzing notes that the man likely knows just how weak his body is right now. He worked at a hospital once, after all. 

“I’ll give you one more chance, Malcolm.”

“I followed the clues,” he insists.

Paul swiftly reaches down and puts pressure on the healing incision on his chest, his superior strength more than enough to keep Malcolm’s weak attempts from pushing him away. “_How did you find him?_”

Malcolm shakes his head.

Paul pushes harder.

“I’m—”

Mercifully, the pressure abates.

“— I’m my father’s son,” Malcolm chokes out, his chest screaming in agony and eyes weeping. “We’re the same.”

This time Paul smiles in a way that might be comforting coming from someone else. “_See?_ Was that so hard?” He gently grasps Malcolm’s chin and tilts it up to better look at him. “You can change your name as many times as you want, but you’ll _always_ be Martin’s boy. You certainly look like him. Stubborn like him, too.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but they snap back open when he feels something close to his face.

It’s Paul. He sniffs him. “You even smell like him.”

The doorknob turns, but the lock holds. They both still.

“Malcolm?” Ainsley shouts. She sounds hysterical. “What’s going on?” 

Paul hums. “Your sister. Would you like to take care of her, or should I?”

“Ainsley, leave,” Malcolm screams hoarsely. 

“_Malcolm?_” She starts banging on the door.

“Get somewhere safe and lock yourself in,” he pleads.

“Malcolm—”

“_LEAVE!_”

Silence. He hopes she listened.

Paul grins at him. “I think she’s gone. Good girl.”

Malcolm glares.

“Oh don’t worry,” Paul tells him gleefully. “I don’t plan on chasing after her. Not when I already have you.” He finally leaves the bedside to grab the wheelchair in the corner. 

The nurses left it there so that they could easily load him into it to go get tests done.

“Where are you taking me?” God, he hopes Ainsley called Gil.

“You’ll find out when I want you to find out, Malcolm. Don’t push me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting close to the end of this fic! Now that the winter finale aired, I have an actual plan for how the rest of this will go, and while I'm not sure how many chapters that will be, I think I will definitely finish this up before the next episode airs in January.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the differences in this chapter! Next chapter I think we'll be checking in with Gil.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things very much do not go according to plan

“Lieutenant,” the voice says pleasantly as the call picks up.

Gil glances at his team giving him the all clear. “Lazar. You got my attention. What do you want?”

“No, this isn’t about what I want. This is about what _you_ want.”

“And what do I want?”

“Don’t even try, Lieutenant. We both know you’re scrambling to find the body my gift fits.”

“It certainly crossed my mind.” 

Paul chuckles. “Let me offer you a deal. I’ll give you a set of coordinates to follow. You play along, and you might get your answer. Or maybe a different one altogether.”

“And if I don’t play along?”

“Then you get another black mark on your record. First the girl in the box, now the hand. Two cases, two dead-ends, both under your management.”

He doesn’t have a choice, really. If he ignores this, it’s likely Paul’s threats will escalate. Looking at his team, he can tell they know this, too. “I’ll play.”

“Good,” Paul says. “I’ll send those coordinates soon.”

“LEAVE!”

Every cell in Ainsley’s body is screaming for her to stay, to do _something_. Her brother is trapped with a killer, and _yes_, she’s aware that he’s taken down his fair share of them and that he’s been trained to keep situations from escalating, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s injured. If the situation goes south, he won’t be able to fight off the Junkyard Killer. 

She feels cold down to her bones. What can she even _do_? She’s not trained the way he is. She’s not strong enough to go head to head with a killer. 

Cursing Malcolm’s overly protective brother instincts, she finally turns and books it, trying to find a lockable door. The nearest is an office, and she locks herself in the private bathroom after locking the main door for good measure. She opens her contacts and hits a number rarely used but important nevertheless.

It rings and rings and rings. 

“_You’ve reached Gil_ —” She hangs up and feels the tears leave hot trails down her cheeks.

Can she even bother with the regular cops? She saw the security detail dead on the floor down the hall. Would they be prepared to deal with the Junkyard Killer?

Gil just barely manages to hold back the frustrated shout building in his throat until he is back in his car. As dramatic as it sounds, he feels as if the floor has fallen out from underneath him. He’s believed for _years_ that the girl in the box was a figment of Malcolm’s trauma, that she never existed, which was supported by the utter lack of evidence as well as Martin’s convincing denial. No one but Malcolm believed she was real. 

And they were all _wrong_. Maybe they should have looked harder. Maybe they shouldn’t have taken The Surgeon’s word as truth, but even then, the rest of the precinct thought Gil pushed it further than it needed to be. He wanted to prove to Malcolm that she wasn’t real and that he didn't have to worry about her. Instead, he wonders just how much harm they all did to the boy.

At least he can make it up to him on some level. They have a bracelet now, and there’s enough circumstantial evidence from Paul’s knowledge of the girl to reopen the case. 

He takes a calming breath and pulls his phone from the glove compartment, expecting to see a few texts from a bored Malcolm. 

There’s one missed call — from Ainsley. She didn’t leave a message, but it’s odd enough that she called, and so he quickly returns it.

She picks up almost immediately. “Gil?” she whispers.

“What’s wrong?”

“The killer, he’s here or he was.” She makes an aborted sob. “He was in Malcolm’s room.”

His grip on the phone increases, and he’s half sure the case will crack. “Are you safe?”

“I locked myself in. But Mal—”

“Good. I’m on my way with backup.” He opens the car door and gestures to Dani and JT, who both come swiftly. “Ainsley, I want you to stay on the line. I’m passing you off to Detective Powell. JT, I need you to gather some officers. We have a situation at the hospital.”

It was foolish to think that Paul would let him see where they were going, but Malcolm had held out that hope right up until the older man injected him with something that knocked him out cold. Unfortunately, Paul isn’t stupid. His father likely never would have mentored him if he was.

So now Malcolm stirs in a cramped space, his chest still throbbing from his interrogation. He tries to blink away the blurriness. Whatever drug Paul gave him is _strong_, it takes everything he has to fight against it enough to get that far, and it doesn’t help that there is no light other than what is filtering through from another space — blinds, maybe? He tries to shift into a more comfortable position only to be stopped short.

He’s chained to the floor. He can feel the cold of the cuffs as soon as he realizes, which brings another realization along with it; the only clothes he has are the hospital gown and a pair of boxer briefs. Even the hospital issued socks he was wearing, the ones with the grips on the soles, are gone. Wherever he is, Paul left him there deliberately cold and without comfort. 

His eyes clear somewhat, and he can tell that what he thought were blinds are actually shuttered doors, like the ones you would find used for closets. Bile rises in the back of his throat as he realizes that they’re covered in scratch marks. He’s not the first person to be in this room, and the last one (or _more_) was desperate enough to try to claw their way out. Malcolm leans into the wall behind him and tries not to vomit.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” a voice beyond the doors says. “This is only a rest stop.”

“You make it sound like we’re on a road trip,” Malcolm croaks in return. 

“Think of it more like… a journey.” There’s a pause before the voice returns colored with amusement. “A journey of self discovery, if you will.”

Malcolm grits his teeth. “Like the hunting trip?” 

There’s no answer, no sound.

He’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really curious what everyone thinks about this one! I knew after the winter finale that I had to work John's grandmother's house in somehow!


	9. Chapter 9

It’s impossible to keep track of the days — if he’s even been there that long yet. Most of his coherent spells are spent alone. He hasn’t seen anything other than the closet he woke up in, and the room beyond it remains dark with only the occasional dim light shining through the slats in the door. The only noise he can pick up in the rattling of his chain, the clink of links as they shift through the anchor on the floor. The shrill sound of it wakes him up after his sleeps, and although each period of unconsciousness is without fail preceded by a meal — slop of some kind, which his kidnapper seems to find amusing — Malcolm can’t afford _not_ to eat. 

His body is weak. 

Once or twice that he’s been awake for, Paul has checked his chest in silence, carefully replacing the bandages as soon as he’s done. He’s not sure if the man changes them while he’s drugged, too. The incision healed quite a lot while he was in the hospital, but it’s been _aching_ ever since Paul put pressure on it. Malcolm’s body can’t heal properly without some sort of food.

So he eats the slop. He chokes it down. He even _thanks_ his kidnapper for it, because the first time, he didn’t, and Paul ground the sole of his shoe into his hand and broke three fingers. 

(_“You were such a polite boy when I met you,” the man says lightly. “Until your _whore_ of a mother got you to herself.”_)

The next time he was fed was the first time Malcolm said thank you. Paul taped his fingers for him then.

(_“Now was that so hard?”_)

And he doesn’t know how many times it’s been. With the drugs, it could have been three or four or _ten_ meals total, and who knows how many times a day he’s fed. Now that he’s awake again, a meal is sure to follow.

Malcolm pulls against the handcuffs, wincing at the pain in his raw wrists, and huddles in the corner.

Across the tiny space, the Girl in the box watches.

“Ainsley,” Gil shouts from a safe distance away from the bathroom door, “you can come out now.”

She cracks the door open, one red, puffy eye peeking out for the split second it takes to affirm it’s him, and then she’s clinging to him.

He staggers back with the sudden weight of her. Regardless, his arms are up around her before long. “We’ll get him back,” he promises both of them. 

“Gil,” JT says from a few feet behind him. 

Her nails dig into his arms.

Sighing, Gil gives Ainsley a squeeze before carefully pulling away. “Are those officers ready?”

JT nods. 

“Ainsley,” Gil says carefully, “I need to take a look at the scene. A group of our finest will keep an eye on you while I’m gone, but I’ll be back.”

“But—”

“I’ll be violating a ton of rules bringing you along, which will only get me kicked off this case faster.”

Straightening her back, Ainsley tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at him shrewdly. “Faster?”

He smirks halfheartedly. “Everyone at the station knows how close I am to you kids. The sooner I can take a look, the more I’ll know before they make the decision.”

“You can’t keep me away from this, though, you realize that, right? He’s my _brother_.”

“I know.”

It seems too easy that she willingly stays behind with the other officers, but Gil can’t give any thought to it right now. He moves to what was Malcolm’s room, knowing that if this was Paul’s work, which it clearly was, the FBI would be coming in soon, too. They were already swooping in to take over the Junkyard Killer case. Undoubtedly, they would take this one, too, and he can't ignore the fact that they fired Malcolm for his behavior. If there _is_ evidence that backs up that this was an abduction and not cooperation, it needs to be documented _immediately_. 

His team is already ahead of him.

“Bright fought,” Dani assures him. “He knocked everything off the side table at some point. Plus, he was still hooked up to the machines. His heart rate spiked right before his sister called you.”

“The wheelchair is gone, too,” JT adds. “It’d be easier to move a limp body in one of those. We're pulling the security footage right now.”

“Good. Any fingerprints yet?”

JT shakes his head. “Nothing. Not even in the other room.”

"Let's get a move on then," Gil says to the room at large. "We need to move fast on this one."

Ainsley, after getting a change of clothes and promising to come in to the station the next day to give her statement, insists on going to her mother’s house. 

“Thank you, Gil,” she says as they pull up. “I don’t think I can be at my apartment tonight.”

“I should be thanking you, kid.” He grimaces. Jessica still doesn’t know about the abduction. “I think your mother is going to need you more here.”

They get out of his car and make their way up to the door, letting themselves in and catching the eldest Whitly woman eating alone in the dining room. 

For all that Martin was a highly respected doctor, it couldn’t be said that his children got all of their smarts from him, and Jessica proves it, her face immediately falling when she sees the two of them together. Gil and Malcolm was to be expected. Gil by himself was not odd either. But with _Ainsley_? They hadn’t had the same reason to bond as Jessica herself and Malcolm had with the cop, and so while they were friendly, they didn’t habitually spend much time just the two of them. She put her fork down.

“Jessica—”

“What happened?”

“It’s Malcolm,” Ainsley says, her voice wobbling slightly. “The Junkyard Killer has him.”

“_What?_” She stands abruptly. “How could this happen?” Her eyes swing to Gil. “I _thought_ you had officers on the door.”

“I did,” he says grimly. 

She pales and wavers, and Gil catches her as she begins to lose her balance. 

“I promised Ainsley we’d get him back,” he tells her as the girl in question comes over to be by her mother’s side. “And I _will_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end! I think another 2, maybe 3 chapters will finish this one up. My goal is to get at least one more chapter up before the next episode, but we'll see
> 
> Hope you all liked this one!
> 
> (Also, Ainsley is definitely not taking a step back for the rest of this fic)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four short conversations

The next day Gil calls. The FBI agents have officially arrived and taken over, and while they’re letting him stay due to the urgency of the case, he’s no longer in charge of any aspect of it. They still need Ainsley to come in a give a full statement, of course, but he warns her that she won’t be talking with anyone on his team.

She assures him it won’t be a problem. She hangs up and calls Clairemont.

They check her for any weapons or items that _could_ be used as weapons. It’s standard practice, though they’re more strict after what her father pulled. Thankfully, it’s over quick. 

She nods at David as he opens the door for her.

Martin grins. “Ainsley! I wasn’t expecting you so soon. How’s the interview coming along?”

“We’re still editing,” she says shortly. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?”

“Your old friend, the Junkyard Killer, has Malcolm.”

He stills, and the grin slips off of his face, a growing rage taking its place. He stares at her intently. “_What_ did you say, dear?”

“He took him from the hospital. Killed all of the officers stationed to protect him.” Part of her is aware that this is _exactly_ the kind of thing that Malcolm didn’t want her to tell Martin. Most of her doesn’t care. She’d rather have her brother back. She adds fuel to the fire. “He almost had me, too, but Malcolm convinced me to run.” 

Her father’s hands have long since curled into fists. “He was supposed to leave all of you alone,” he hissed. 

“And maybe he would have if Malcolm wasn’t Malcolm. He figured him out, you know? The police never would have caught on.”

“He’s smart,” Martin says, proud even in his building fury.

“He is,” Ainsley agrees. She pauses for effect. She knows well enough that she has to play into his ego, even if he’s aware she’s doing it. “But he’s trapped. I don’t know if they’ll be able to find him in time.”

“So you’ve come to me.” He smiles again, this time sharp and menacing.

She holds back her flinch and moves closer to the line. “Of course. You mentored him. You _know_ him. If you helped, _you_ could save Malcolm.”

“Just curiously, does anyone know you’re here, dear?”

“No. I’m asking as your daughter.” She takes another step closer.

His expression softens. “Then ask away.”

She pulls out her phone and sets it to record audio. “You mentored the Junkyard Killer. You _must_ know his real name…”

John retrieves the empty bowl and closes the door without a word.

Malcolm almost prefers it that way. Sometimes the man sticks around to lecture him, to talk about purpose and mission and _betrayal_, to assure him that once he’s done, Malcolm will become the man his father wanted him to be. Now, as whatever drugs were in the food start to work on his system, he crawls into the corner of the closet and stretches his cramped legs. This time was one of his silent approaches. They were likely designed to make him feel even more cut off.

The Girl mimics him, her cool, dead skin brushing against his. Her hair is matted and her face shadowed. She’s spoken once or twice, a whisper to find her, that he knows more than he thinks he does. Most of the time, however, she sits and stares and mirrors him. When he collapses, she lays on the closet floor next to him. She takes the corners opposite him when he sits. She watches the shuttered door just as he does.

He’s not sure what his subconscious is doing with her. Obviously, it understands that he can’t do much to find her right now, because she’s not pushy. She really just keeps him company, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

In some ways, it’s almost _comforting_ to have her there.

_I’m sorry_, he thinks to her, unable to get his mouth to cooperate to say it out loud now with the drugs.

She lays a hand on his leg.

“I’ll gladly give you my statement,” Ainsley says as she walks into the room the FBI agents have taken over, “_after_ you go over this.” She hands one of them her phone, open to the newest audio file. 

“My name is Agent Swanson,” the woman says, eyebrow raised. “What is this, Ms. Whitly?”

“All of the information you need to find my brother — the Junkyard Killer’s name, where he used to live, what his methods are — straight from The Surgeon’s mouth.”

“Because The Surgeon is trustworthy,” Agent Swanson deadpans.

“Look,” Ainsley shoots back, “if _you_ don’t use this information, _I_ will. I’m sure you were told that I’m a reporter. I can have this information public by the end of the day.”

“You know that could make the killer angry, don’t you?”

“It could also get me my brother back sooner. Now, are you going to do your job or will I have to?”

In the end, it’s Gil that gives her her answer. 

“I understand how you’re feeling right now, Ainsley, but we can’t just raid any residence we want to,” he says, looking pained. “We don’t even know if Watkins still lives there yet. Nor can we confirm Martin was telling the truth.”

“Trust me, he wants Malcolm back.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Still, we don’t know if they’ve been in contact. We don’t know if he’s trying to throw us off the right trail to give himself time to convince the killer to let Malcolm go himself. _Hell_, who’s to say he didn’t want this to happen in the first place.”

“I just want him back,” she says quietly. 

“We all do. Please, Ainsley, give us a few days before you go public. I know I can’t stop you — you’re just as stubborn as your brother — but making the Junkyard Killer feel cornered won’t end well for Malcolm.”

“I couldn’t sleep last night.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “I kept hearing him yelling for me to get out. Gil—”

“I’m glad he did,” he said bluntly. “Your brother knew just as I do that you would have only ended up abducted along with him or dead.”

She crossed her arms and looked away.

Gil hugged her. “I know, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was chapter 10! I think there will be one more chapter left, which I'm hoping to get out this week. Since I'm so close to finishing this, I'm focusing on it over my other pson fics rn (in case anyone reads those, too). 
> 
> Hope you liked it!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: *googles how to break out of handcuffs*

It’s taking a frustratingly long time to get a warrant. They checked up on Martin’s claims and found that there was indeed a John Watkins working at the same hospital at the same time he was. The man had even been interviewed shortly after the The Surgeon’s arrest. He was odd, the notes from the interview state, but not suspicious enough to be investigated further. The address from the file matches what Martin gave them, too. They’re able to confirm that his grandmother still lived there, but John Watkins himself had seemingly moved out of the city years ago. 

The trail ends there, which in itself is suspicious, but still not necessarily _enough_.

“Look,” Gil says, after pulling Dani and JT aside, “I need you two to work on something for me.”

“Anything, as long as it’s more productive than this,” JT grumbles, tense.

Dani nods. “It’s about Bright, isn’t it?”

Gil returns the nod. “I need you to look into any other properties Watkins owns. Even if we can get into the house, there’s no guarantee the grandmother will be cooperative or that we’ll find any evidence of where he is.” He frowns. “I know it’s tedious, but —”

“It’s better than sitting on our asses waiting for the FBI to decide they have enough for a warrant,” JT interjects.

“Exactly,” Gil says. “I’ll still be working with them, but I need you two working on contingency plans.” 

Sometimes he misses the way Malcolm always worked around obstacles like these.

When he wakes up again, she’s still there. It’s unsurprising, really. He doesn’t bother talking to her, knowing that speaking will only bring Watkins back to drug him again, and she gives him a look of understanding as she pats his leg in response. 

He has to stifle the hysterical laugh that crawls up his throat. He wonders what Gabrielle would say if he told her that his hallucinations were comforting him now. 

But he’ll never get to tell her. 

The Girl in the Box puts a finger up to her mouth until he manages to snuff it out.

They sit there. Waiting.

Ainsley sits and waits for her mother to respond. She dropped a bomb on her, sure, but this way the resulting conversation will be on _her_ terms, because she knows whatever happens now could never be as bad as it would have been if her mother found out from anyone else.

“You—” Jessica cuts herself off and reaches for the glass of wine Ainsley warned her to have ready. She downs it and pours another. “_Why?_”

“You know why,” Ainsley says calmly. Or, as calmly as she can pretend. “I _had_ to. Gil wasn’t going to get anywhere with the FBI coming in, and I knew I could get the information out of him.” She avoids calling Martin Dad. She’s more aware of her ‘audience’ now than she ever was. 

“But why did it have to be _you?_” 

“Who else?” Ainsley scoffs. “_Gil?_ I doubt anyone would have gotten answers as quickly as I did.”

“Answers?” Now it’s Jessica’s time to scoff. “And just how sure can you be that those answers were real? You went to a _serial killer_ for the truth, dear.”

“I went to a serial killer _obsessed with Malcolm_. I doubt he’d lie and risk Mal dying.”

Her words hung between them for some time, something dirty that neither of them wanted to acknowledge but was always there.

“I wish I had your confidence,” Jessica says finally.

Something is different. Or wrong. Malcolm’s not sure.

He can’t tell just how much time has passed, but he knows that Watkins doesn’t _usually_ wait this long between dosing him. He’s never managed to be coherent this long. There’s no light or noise coming from the room beyond the closet he’s in, nothing to indicate that anyone is coming. Of course, it _could_ be a mind game. Maybe Watkins is waiting for him to try something. Maybe he’s supposed to drown in his anxiety.

The Girl crawls forward and grasps his hands. “Move.”

His hands are limp in hers.

“Move,” she says again. “_Move_.”

“_How_,” he hisses.

Gently, she manipulates one of his hands and the chain attached to the handcuff, twisting it over and over again.

It takes him a moment, but — _oh_, he’s seen this before. Never tried it himself, but he remembers hearing about it before. He’s not sure that it will work with the heavier chain Watkins hooked his handcuffs up to, but it’s worth a try. He begins twisting with her, watching the point where the cuff attaches to the chain.

Eventually, the weaker link holding the two together _snaps_.

“Move,” she says once more.

He does. Carefully slipping the remainder of the chain through the anchor on the floor, he struggles to his feet. His stab wound is still not fully healed, and the stretch makes it ache, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to stay quiet. He’s not sure how much time he has.

“We have a warrant,” Agent Swanson announces. “That doesn’t mean we can go in guns blazing. We can’t know for sure if Watkins is at the house or even monitoring it. He knows he’s on our radar, and he will be careful.” She turns to Gil. “Lieutenant, I need a word.”

He follows her to another room, out of the way.

“I’ll be blunt with you, Lieutenant. Your team is too close to this,” she says once they’re alone.

Gil grimaces, opening his mouth to speak, but she holds up a hand.

“But I doubt that means anything to you. I know your team is looking into Watkins’ properties. It’s a good thread to follow, which is why I want them to continue working on it.”

“Thank you,” he says begrudgingly. 

“I also know that Bright won’t be terribly happy to see me, rescuer or not, so I’ll allow one of you to tag along as long as you acknowledge that this is _my_ case.” She looks at him expectantly.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Then suit up, Lieutenant.”

Unfortunately, the fact that the closet is locked doesn’t give him many options. Malcolm psyches himself up before throwing himself at the door. It takes two good slams to break open, and he’s aware that none of it was quiet.

He holds his chain close as he moves out of the room. Part of him wants Watkins to be home, wants him to inspect the noise, wants to see his face as the chain knocks the breath out of him. The rest of him wants to get out.

He makes it down the hall before he sees her. The woman is old, old enough that he’d guess she’s Watkins’ grandmother if they’re related at all, and if the way her eyes slide over him is any indication, she’s blind, too. She grumbles something under her breath as she comes up the steps. 

Regardless of who she is, he knows she knows what Watkins is doing. There’s no scenario in which the man would let her come close to Malcolm if she didn’t. 

Malcolm lets some of the chain loose, and as she pauses at the soft clinking, he whips at her with it, refusing to feel guilty as she shrieks and stumbles back, falling down the staircase. She sobs and screeches at the bottom of it. Her head is bleeding and her leg is at an odd angle. He limps down after her.

A door slams open.

The team Agent Swanson brings with her, Gil included, come with bulletproof vests and hands ready on their weapons. They’re not taking any chances. 

Agent Swanson silently directs some of the other agents to go around the house. Once they’re out of sight, she goes up to the door and listens, Gil right behind her. 

There’s screaming inside, muffled but clearly not from a TV. 

She slams the door open.

Malcolm walks around the old woman, careful not to get within grabbing distance, even if she seems to be in too much pain to do anything. As he circles around her, he sees him.

Watkins. There’s fury across every inch of his body. He has a hunting knife in one hand.

Malcolm swings the chain slightly, taunting him. “You should have come back sooner, John.”

The man’s face twists up. “I should have known you were resourceful. You _are_ your father’s boy, Malcolm.”

“My father never attacked the elderly.” He smiles a nasty smile as the Girl approaches Watkins. “Don’t underestimate me.”

Watkins takes a step.

Malcolm adjusts his grip on the chain.

The old woman is still screaming in pain.

The door slams open.

In the end, it’s simple. Agent Swanson and Gil enter the house, guns out. Two shots are fired. One cripples Watkins at the knee. The other hits his arm, the spasms of pain sending the knife to the floor as he howls.

Malcolm lets the length of chain fall in relief before he follows suit, the stress and pain finally catching up with him.

The rest of the agents enter the house, and Watkins and his grandmother are taken into custody. 

Gil rides in the ambulance along with Malcolm.

When he wakes up again, he’s not at the house anymore. He’s back in the hospital, hooked up to a monitor and in a fresh gown. He barely manages to hold back the laughter that bubbles up. How long has it been since he’s woken up in his own bed?

His mother and sister are both asleep in chairs in the corner, which is how he knows he’s been out for a while. Neither of them would willingly sleep in a hospital chair. 

“Malcolm?”

It’s Gil, in a chair closer to him and looking so painfully relieved, and Malcolm can’t help but grin.

“Hey, Gil.”

“Hey, kid.”

“Is he —”

“The FBI has Watkins and his grandmother,” Gil assures him. “You’re safe.”

He almost cracks a joke about feeling safe the last time he was in the hospital, but he thinks twice about it.

“Dani and JT are on a coffee run,” Gil continues. “You can expect Edrisa to pop by as soon as she hears you’re awake.”

It’s odd, he thinks, having so many people care. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Malcolms says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked it! My plan for the end of this fic changed a bunch of times, honestly, and after the winter premiere I wasn't too happy with what I settled on after the last chapter. (I was going to have Malcolm be saved without getting himself free, but I loved the way 1x11 ended and couldn't not have him do something.) So that's part of the reason for the delay.
> 
> If anyone reading this also reads my other prodigal son fics, I'll be working on updating them next (including a connected fic to Reunion)! I really just wanted to finish this one first, because I have so many ideas for this fandom haha and this was the fic closest to being finished

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really have any concrete plans for this fic yet, just that it will have a happy ending. Updates will hopefully be every week or so. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
